Peter's Nightmare
by P'al Kwai
Summary: Sylar/Peter. Taken from S4 E18, 'The Wall.'


Title: Peter's Nightmare

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. They belong to their respective creators.

Author's Note: In canon, Sylar and Peter did not have their powers, when they were in the nightmare, but I changed that because Sylar just isn't any fun without his powers. Also, at the time of the nightmare, Sylar no longer had advanced hearing ability, but I realized that after I had written it in. So that fact too is not canon.

* * *

Date Unknown, Sylar's Nightmare

February 1, 2010. The date sticks in my mind like a flashing neon sign. February 1. 2010, the date that I rashly jumped into Sylar's mind and ended up. . ._here_. I survey my surroundings from the rooftop, where I had been hiding out. Although I use the term hiding-out loosely, since I should know that a rooftop is not exactly an optimal place to conceal oneself from a man who can fly.

A slight breeze blows, which causes a few of the pages of the comic book, 9th Wonders to turn over The rustling of its pages catches my attention, and I bend down to pick-up the comic, which I had thrown-down in anger a short time ago. Sylar had found it and had brought it to me as, I believe, a peace-offering. Although in truth, since I had arrived _here_, he hasn't been anything but. . .nice.

I sigh heavily. That's the problem. As time goes by, I find my hatred of him dissipating piece by piece, little by little, and that, that is just not acceptable. It would be a betrayal, a betrayal of my brother and his memory. So in order to hang on to my hate and anger, I took to avoiding him. And it's now been. . .a week? Two? Six? He claims a month, and I can't argue because I have no idea. Time for me in this existence has all but stopped. I have no clue on how long I've been here anymore.

Sighing, I flip through the comic, a part of me rejoicing at receiving this small gift because it means a few moments, where my boredom can be alleviated a bit. Rolling it up and stuffing into my back pocket, I stand, deciding that perhaps it's time to meet Sylar half-way. After all, avoiding him is not going to help in finding a way out of this nightmare.

* * *

Swinging the sledgehammer, I batter at the brick wall over and over. For days now, I've been working at pounding a hole in the wall because I know, I just know that this is the way to freedom. A voice interrupts my thought, as the vibrations of my last swing flows through my body.

"Hey, you should eat."

"Don't need to eat, don't need to sleep, don't need anything," I puff- out between swings of the sledgehammer. I pause in my labors, breathing heavily. "I can't stay here any longer, I need to leave. It's been too long; it's been. . . ." I automatically raise my wrist to check my watch. "I don't even know how long it's been. . .don't." I hold up a hand. "Tell me." Sylar is a walking-talking clock/calendar, who has the unfortunate habit of telling me to the minute how long anything's been.

"You can't keep this pace up," he tells me. "You need to eat."

"Who do you think you are, my mother? I immediately retort back. A moment passes, as I realize how ridiculous I sound. My mother lectures me all the time, on numerous matters, but usually never on my welfare.

"I just don't know how much longer you can keep this up." Sylar eyes me with concern, as I grab my water bottle and gulp down half of its contents.

"As long as it takes." I pick up the sledgehammer and resume my labors. "As long as it takes."

* * *

Weeks have gone by, and every day I pound away at the wall, and everyday nothing changes. But I won't give-up; I refuse to give-up.

"Any progress today?" Sylar suddenly appears behind me.

I turn sharply, startled, schooling my features to hide my surprise. "No." I purposely breath heavy to hide the quiver in my voice. "It's just like yesterday, and the day before that."

Sylar brings both hands up and falls forward against the wall. "And the day before that."

"Right," I agree, as I drop the sledgehammer. Sylar is as good as excuse as any to take a break. "Going to help me today?" Some days he comes and swings a sledgehammer with me. I appreciate his effort, since I know, he believes it's futile.

He shrugs, and that shrug tells me everything. There isn't anything better for him to do. A small movement and the sledgehammer jumps up and lands neatly in his hand.

"Show-off," I mutter softly, a hint of jealousy in my voice. The power I currently possess is Matt's telepathy, and as long as we're here, that's the power that will stay with me because, and this I'm sure of, it's part of the equation of us escaping from this nightmare.

Sylar turns toward the wall, but then abruptly stops, head cocked. He hears something with his superman like ears. "Footsteps," he finally whispers out. "I hear footsteps, but, but. . . ."

"Really?" The sledgehammer drops from my hand. I try to damper the hope that begins to swell in me. "Are you sure? Or is it just the wind banging something?"

Sylar concentrates harder. "It's footsteps, many footsteps, but they're wrong, all wrong."

"Wrong?" I scratch my head. "How can footsteps be wrong?"

"They're coming this way," he murmurs out. "And they're," he breaks-off, and with inhuman speed he drops the sledgehammer and swoops me up. We're airborne within a blink of an eye.

"What the hell?" I yell out, as my arms automatically go around his neck. In that moment, I'm tempted to break my vow and take his power of flight, just so I can get out of this embarrassing position of being wrapped in his arms.

"Hang on, Peter," he tells me unnecessarily. "Something is not right here, and I'm going to find out what."

"Footsteps mean people." I try not to look down. Flying under one's own power is one thing, trusting someone not to drop you is a whole different story. "And the presence of people mean that perhaps we're out of this nightmare."

"These aren't people," Sylar says flatly. "And our nightmare just may have gotten worse."

"How do you know?" I ask, feeling him begin to descend. I quickly glance downward and see that he's landing on a rooftop. Looking around, I check my surroundings. We're a few miles due east of _thee wall_. Since its sudden appearance, it's my point of reference for just about everything.

"There." Sylar points a finger, as we gently touch down on top of the roof. "That's who or what I was hearing."

It's a crowd, and at first glance, it appears to be a crowd of people, all shuffling their way down the street. But upon closer inspection, I see that there is something terribly wrong with these _people_.

"What the hell are they?" Sylar steps close to the edge and peers down into the street.

"Zombies."

"Come again?' He stares at me like I've just gone crazy.

"They're zombies," I repeat myself. "Not the voodoo type of zombie, but the George Romero zombie."

"What are you talking about?" Sylar gives me a look of pure exasperation. "Who's George Romero?"

"George Romero, an American film director, writer, editor and cinematographer," I recite. Being a huge fan of Romero, I know his credentials by heart. "Reinvented the horror genre with his Night of the Living Dead in 1968, a cult classic that made its way onto the prestigious. . . ."

"Okay, you made your point," Sylar interrupts. "So these zombies are out of fictional movies. You know that's crazy."

"Anymore crazier than an indestructible wall, which despite all my pounding, doesn't even have a chipped brick." I pause, as both of us stare out at the mob of undead bodies. "This is a scene right out of one of Romero's zombie movies. The zombies shambling down the street in search of flesh to feed their unnatural cravings."

Sylar turns to me with another exasperated look. "Well, this has got to be your nightmare because thankfully, I have never seen one of _those_ movies."

"My nightmare? So now we're in my head?" I ask with surprise.

"Your head, my head." Sylar shrugs. "What difference does it make?"

"A big difference!" I shout. "Like that!" I point to the zombies below us.

"Right, Peter." Sylar's voice is calm, despite my anger. "So tell me, just how dangerous are these zombies?"

"Zombies are undead beings, who are slow-moving, dimwitted and crave human flesh. If you're bitten by one of them, you die and then rise as one of them. If there's just a few of them, they're easy to outmaneuver, but their strength comes in numbers. A horde of them will take a well-armed man down."

"Uh-huh." Sylar sighs. "And what kills them?"

"A bullet to the head, or fire, setting them on fire will do it."

"Too bad I was never able to obtain the ability to manipulate fire," Sylar says softly, which earns him my dirtiest look. "But let's see if electricity hurts them." Bolts of electricity fly from his fingertips, hitting a zombie right in the head. It promptly falls to the ground, and within moments a group of its companions falls on it, mouths open, ready to eat.

"That's revolting!" Sylar's face is screwed up in disgust.

"Really?" I feign ignorance. "And here I thought you'd be feeling a kinship to them, since you eat people's brains."

"I **do not, nor have I ever **eaten anyone's brains," Sylar protests loudly, as he reaches for me, but I quickly sidestep him, and grab him around the neck from behind. Riding him piggyback is less awkward. "You know, it would make things simpler, if you just took my power of flight. Not to mention, safer for you."

"No," I answer adamantly. "I need Matt's power to free us because I'm sure that we will be free from this nightmare one day."

* * *

Standing on the rooftop of the building we've called home now for some months, I watch the street below, filled to overflowing with the shambling, ugly, undead creatures, which had sprung from the imagination of one man's creative mind. Since their arrival, I have not been able to go near **the** wall, and my hope of escaping this place, this nightmare, is beginning to diminish. I feel disheartened and helpless.

"Peter," Sylar interrupts my dark musings. "I managed to scrounge up a few more bales of hay, but they're becoming harder and harder to find. We'll have to either think up something else to keep the zombies out, or you're going to have to fly. Finding more could be a day's trip at least."

"You're angry at me, aren't you?" I rest my elbows on the rooftop's ledge, continuing to gaze out on the street. I don't want to look at him.

"Angry?" Sylar shakes his head. "I'm not angry."

"These past months, you've had to do everything because you were the only one who can fly. I've not helped at all; I've just been a. . . . ."

"If you take another power, you lose Matt's telepathy, and perhaps our only way of here. And unfortunately, telepathy wouldn't be much help against those." He points down at the street. "Mindless things. So you need to be careful. There's not a problem here; I understand the situation completely."

"Do you?' I finally turn to face him. "According to you, there is no way out of here, so it's pointless for me to be hanging on to this one stupid ability. I should take your power of flight, and then I could help." My voice rises with accusation, even though I'm the guilty one.

"Peter." In contrast, Sylar's voice is calm. "It's not like I have a million other things I have to do, in fact, in one way, it feels good, gives me a purpose in life."

I sigh, sensing his sincerity. It's just my own perspective and guilt that is pointing the finger, not Sylar. "So, in your travels, were there zombies all over the place?"

Sylar shakes his head in the affirmative. "Masses of them everywhere, so there's no place for us to run to or hide." He pats my shoulder, a comforting gesture. "I'm hungry. Did you make anything to eat?"

* * *

More than a year has passed since the zombies have appeared, and for me, everyday consists of frustration, boredom, and a sense of despair. My prison has shrunk. Now I'm not just a hostage of this nightmare but confined to four walls and a rooftop. This is my life, and it's not going to change.

With his ability to fly, Sylar spends much of time, resupplying our fortifications, our energy, food, and any kind of entertainment that can be found. I spend much of my time waiting for him. Life could be different; I could take his power of flight, and then at least have the freedom to leave the house and its protections, but I stubbornly hold fast to the idea that I can't, I just can't give up Matt's power.

The day begins as usual, with me sleeping past noon, and Sylar already gone. I stretch and yawn, as I shuffle my way to the front window. I start all my days, checking out the zombie situation, which never changes. They're always there, mobs of them, milling around, doing very little, which has me wondering if they're as bored as I am. Pushing the curtain aside, I peek out, and to my astonishment there's no one there. Not one zombie in sight; the street is empty, barren of life, like it had been when I first arrived.

Rubbing my eyes, I look again, just to make sure. Not a living or undead soul around, and the wall, it's still standing there, my gate to freedom. I just have to figure out the lock. Adrenaline kicking in, I rush around madly, dashing to pull on some clothes. Another ten minutes is spent, cursing and swearing, as I scramble to find the sledgehammer, which hasn't been used since the zombie arrival. I finally locate it with a pile of tools, thrown in a closet.

I barrel down the stairs to the first floor, where I finally have to stop and take a breath. The building, which we call home, is a warehouse on the first floor and an efficiency apartment on the second, perfect for our situation. To make it zombie-proof, we surrounded the building with smoldering bales of hay, stacked one on top of the other. They act as barriers, which initially stops them. They flail around, trying to figure out how to get around the hay, and then step too close and the smoldering hay sets them on fire. They're quite flammable. It the beginning, Sylar and I would sit just inside the warehouse and count how many of them would go up in flames in an hour. It had entertained for a bit.

The warehouse is also filled with all types of alarms and booby-traps, just in case someone actually manages to get through the hay. I turn off the motion-detector alarm, and tip-toe around the leg-hold traps and snares, which had been placed throughout the whole first floor. Pushing a stack of hay with the sledgehammer, I clear a small path for me get around.

The wall calls to me. Perhaps this is a sign, a sign that indicates that the nightmare is finally over.

* * *

The scream sticks in my throat, as hands, hundreds of hands reach for me. My back is already up against the wall, so I have nowhere left to go. I swing the sledgehammer at the closest ones, but they're too many of them, and the hammer is pulled out of my grasp. Now it's not just hands, but open mouths, gaping holes, with rotten teeth and putrid breath. Now the hands are all over me, pulling me flat, as I try to squirm away.

"Ahh!" I sit straight up, waking myself from the nightmare. My heart is beating so hard that it feels like it will jump out of my chest. I open my mouth to shriek, but nothing comes out but a gurgle.

"Peter, Peter." Sylar's voice sooths me and brings me back to reality. "It's over. You're here, where it's safe."

"Safe," I repeat, as my mouth finally begins to work. I look around at the familiar surroundings of our home, small kitchenette, bathroom, and one large room which acts as both living and bedroom. Silence for a moment, except for the ticking of a large clock, which Sylar had hung over the fireplace.

I look over at him. He's crouched by the side of the bed, worry written all over his face. "Are you in pain? he asks.

"No," I manage to grunt out. "I'm alright, I'm. . . ." Memories of what had happened begin to replay through my mind. "Jesus! Fuck!" I throw the blanket off, as I check the wounds the zombies had made.

"They've gone." Sylar runs a hand over my chest and stomach. "The healing ability worked."

"Yeah, yeah," I say, as I inspect my arms and my legs. "But will it stop me from becoming a zombie?" I worry. "Do I look like I'm changing?" I can't help it; I have to ask.

Sylar frowns, as he examines me carefully. "You don't appear to be any different. What kind of signs am I looking for?"

"I don't know." I stop my inspection and think back to all the zombie movies I've seen. "Pale complexion, the shakes. . .it's hard to say because every movie the signs vary."

Sylar sighs. "You seem fine. I don't see anything out of the ordinary."

"Fuck!" I swing my legs to the floor and then drop my head into my hands. I could feel my heart resume a normal beat. "I'm never watching a zombie movie again."

"It's okay, Peter." Sylar leans forward to rub my back. "You're okay. Thank God I was close by; I heard you scream."

"You did?" I look up at him in surprise. "I don't recall screaming."

"Well. . . ." Sylar appears flustered for a moment. "Not screaming but shouting."

"K." I don't remember yelling anything, as fear had caused my mouth to dry up. I shrugged; what did it matter. Obviously, Sylar with his super ears had heard the commotion, and I was alive because of it.

I stand up on shaky legs, as Sylar hovers around me. "You're in shock, lie back down. If you want anything, I'll get it for you."

"Water," I croak out, as I don't hesitate to obey him and flop back on the bed. I close my eyes, feeling my stomach roll, as the memory of being drowned by a horde of zombies keeps flashing before my eyes. This will be the last time I underestimate them.

"Here." Sylar holds out a bottle of water. "Don't gulp, sip. I've got to go up on the roof to change the propane tank. Afterward I'll make you some soup."

"You'll be right back?" I'm suddenly panicked.

"Just going on the roof." Sylar grabs my hand and holds it tight. "I'll be right back."

I lie back with a sigh of relief, as I listen to his footsteps on the ladder up to the roof. From now on I'm sticking close to him.

Up on the rooftop, Sylar looks down at the horde of undead milling around, a smile crosses his face. It was so easy, so very, very easy. Closing his eyes he concentrates hard. Reopening his eyes, he looks down again.

The street is empty.

Finis


End file.
